yá quanta lisselë náldë, valinvë lïndalyë
ar, lé vilya nenda, urulya i ilúvënna tulolyë
lertalyë rácina apa veryavë mahtalyë
immoencavë i miruvórë o rihtarlya antalyë

translation:
when you are full of sweetness, happily you sing
and, through steam (lit. wet air), bring your warmth to the world
you’re so fragile (lit. you can be broken), but you bravely fight fire
selflessly you give away the nectar of your efforts

Hello there, Kettle
My name is ***
You’re blackened metal
And I am not

You are used for water-boiling
And I am used to cook
You are such a soiled thing
But I have such a look!

You find yourself, I am sure,
An object of ridicule
And I am found all the more
As absolutely critical

Do not pretend to be so true
As to walk the path that I’ve got
Do not pretend that I am like you
I assure you that you are not

You must endear to be like me
Old Kettle, I’m helping you out
You could change if you’d only see
You’re the one that sticks yourself out!

So go away, dumb Kettle,
Go away you silly old fool
Do not ******* and settle
You down ‘til you know the rules:

If you feel, do not speak
Not to me, at least
But if your hunger will not leave
Perhaps you need a priest

Or someone else who can deal with this
And the problems I’ve outlined, as well
Because I don’t want to deal with your *******
Just get some mother-******* help

I am the ***
You are the kettle
I am not like you
I am not like you

I stare at the Kettle:
Reflection of your vile face.
Has left me in aghast!
Oh, how I wish to erase
Flashback of grotesque past.
Heart seared by the venom
Of disturbing memories
Caused by antagonism.
This rage can’t be appease
Mind becomes murderous.

The Kettle begins to hiss:
The soul simmers with wrath-
Insanely dangerous,
Hungry for a blood bath!
Oh, I wish for a knife
And stab you many times
As you left me in strife
From your abusive crimes.
Wounded me as a child
And left me powerless.

Boiling Kettle rattles:
My madness is wild
Have I lost my saneness?
Many years I’ve been irate-
Tolerating in silence-
Blood boils with sinful hate!
My spirit seeks the thrill
For an eye for an eye-
As it lust for your ****
And to see you die!

Gas sparks, Kitchen ignites:
Body burnt into ashes-
Soul seethes in resentment.
Revenge sweetly slashes
You to my contentment.
Hands stained with red blood
Like trenches of war mud.
Eyes consumed and blind -
Peace of heart now confined
By rapacious rage.

Mind is a Murderer!
Am I a Murderer!
Will I ever surrender?
Will I ever surrender
And taste tranquility?
Or is my spirit cursed?
Or is my spirit cursed
To be trapped by the thirst
Of the boiling kettle
That will never settle
Until vengeance scorches!

(c)Jo Swan 2018

Impatiently sitting on the bench ahead
Cup stares at me as if wanting to be fed
So I grab Cup and find a boiling kettle
Fill Cup with water hoping it will settle
But Cup begins to steam and nag
So I search the cupboard for a tea bag
Choosing one from the others, I quickly drop it in
The water changing colours, makes me throw it in the bin
I think the dark stuff is something bad
And Cup seems to look pretty sad
So I try to swallow the black stuff away
But my method seems to make Cup dismay
Before I begin, something hot hurts my lip
I didn’t realise that Cup could nip
So I hurry towards the kitchen sink
Tip Cup upside down, before I can think
Cup throws up, being upside down
I forgot Cup got sick when moved around
So I put Cup back where he was
I can see that Cup feels better because
Cup is no longer steaming or spewing any more
Come to think of it, I don’t know why I touched Cup at all!

You’re so lovely,
you warm me up like a kettle,
so don’t be surprised
when I look at you and whistle.

I'd like to live in a small town
where no one knows me
deeper than my name.
I'd like to live in a small town,
living in a small house
where the kettle is always boiling
and where I might not be
so life controlling;
a town with no disasters,
an endless museum of skin
so we can watch all the flowers
break through the ice
we've brought in each other
and truly love what's within,
a town where we'd be smiling
from all the lovely things
said from all the lovely people.
And one day soon,
I might just have to roam away
to satisfy my wanderlust
before the hour of my decay.